


More Mis-Adventures of Dr J H Watson

by Small_Hobbit



Category: Life on Mars (UK), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-06-02 05:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: A collection of drabbles/ficlets regarding the life, and death, of Dr John H Watson, companion of Mr Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Beginning with a Bang

**Author's Note:**

> Written for DW's Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts
> 
> When I posted the first drabble, Mafief commented they were afraid I would creatively kill Watson every day for July. I accepted the challenge, posted a second, and was egged on to see how far I could get.

The order for the frontline medical staff to retreat had gone out, but Watson was determined to do all he could for the casualties in the trench before he left. The stretcher bearers would take them to the first aid posts, but if he didn’t slow the bleeding, they would be wasting their time and effort.

The noise of the bombardment was intense, but Watson doggedly persisted. He had just waved the final casualty off, when the shell hit the trench they were standing in. The explosion demolished most of the trench, killing all but one of the stretcher bearers.


	2. A True Universally Acknowledged

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a consulting detective currently of impecunious means is in need of someone with whom to share lodgings. It is equally true that considerable bonus will be achieved if this person were to become both a dear companion and a true Boswell, indeed a veritable conductor of light.

There is then the inevitable sadness which must come when the beloved companion succumbs, not six months later, to the enteric fever which had previously been thought vanquished. A house of mourning is not conducive to any light, but only darkness relieved by an artificial stimulus.


	3. The Storm

The weather was getting worse. Watson had told Holmes to go on ahead, since it was vital he reach the station before the train departed. His leg was aching badly; they’d been tramping over rough ground from early morning.

The rain grew heavier, and Watson forced himself to keep going, not wishing to add being drenched to his other woes. But the ground was slippery, and he stumbled, wrenching his leg as he regained his balance.

Too tired to continue for the moment, he rested against an old oak tree. The storm broke and lightning struck both tree and Watson.


	4. Treasure Island

“Read to me.” Watson’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

Holmes picked up the well-thumbed copy of _Treasure Island_ , found the place he had left off the evening before, and began to read.

Watson lay in his bed, with his eyes closed, and a small smile on his face, as he listened to the _Hispaniola_ setting sail from Bristol.

Holmes continued to read, while Watson’s shallow breathing became slower until finally, like a ship becalmed, it stopped altogether.

For a while, Holmes sat beside his long-time companion, until finally he rose stiffly and made his way out of the bedroom.


	5. Ghosts

Inspector Gregson sat on the bench in the darkness. It was early evening in late February. Soon the evenings would start to grow lighter, leaves would begin to show on the bare trees, the grip of winter would be loosened. But for now, Gregson was alone with his thoughts. He wondered if he would see them again that evening, as he sometimes did when the tendrils of mist swirled around. Holmes and Watson strolling together side by side, as they once had, before the factory explosion had taken their lives, together with the lives of three of his own men.


	6. Train Crash

The shrill squealing of brakes and the rapid deceleration of the train woke Watson from his doze. There was a crash and the train stopped suddenly. The small child sitting on her mother’s lap in the opposite corner of the compartment began to cry.

The impact had caused the door frame to buckle and cracked the window. Watson used his umbrella to push the glass out and carefully looked to see what had happened.

Then, turning to the young mother he said, “Quick, you need to get out. Climb out of the window and I will hand your child to you. Then get as far away from the train as possible.”

The woman looked nervous, but accepted Watson’s assistance to get out of the window. She dropped down on the outside and held up her arms for Watson to pass the screaming child to her.

“Do you need help, sir?” she asked.

“No, I can cope. Go now!”

The woman made her way to the side of the railway track, stumbling across the rails as she did so.

Watson grimaced. His leg had been badly jolted when the train stopped, and the pain was slowly getting worse. He knew he would need to escape quickly, before the engine could explode. The train shuddered again, Watson’s leg buckled, and he fell back.


	7. Rest in Peace

It was a small group of men and women who stood round the grave, listening as the minister spoke the well-known words, “Dust to dust, Ashes to ashes.” Afterwards the other mourners made their way towards the gate to the graveyard, to give Sherlock Holmes a few minutes to say his own final farewell to his companion.

“Goodbye, dearest friend,” Holmes said. “I regret your death, but I am not sorry that it has brought your sufferings to an end. _Requiescas in Pace_.”

He wiped away a tear, gave a small formal bow and turned slowly away from the grave.


	8. Weight Loss

“I’ve done what I can, Mr Holmes,” the old lady said, “But I couldn’t persuade him to take more than a few mouthfuls.”

“Thank you, Mrs Franklin,” I replied. “You’ve done all you could.” I had engaged her when it became apparent I could no longer care for Watson on my own. “I shall sit with him myself for a while.”

“Yes, sir.”

I entered the bedroom, to see my friend, who, six months ago, had been worried he was putting on weight, reduced to mere skin and bones, and cursed the illness which was slowly sucking his life away.


	9. Ruling A Line

Major Watson picked up the ruler from the plank of wood he was using as a table, and as neatly as he could in the circumstances, ruled a line under his morning’s report. His driver was waiting to take him to visit a fellow officer who’d invited him to join him for dinner. He would write the afternoon’s report later.

As they drove away a sniper’s bullet hit the car and burst a tyre. The driver lost control of the vehicle, which veered into one of the many craters in the road and turned over.

The report was never written.


	10. At the Going Down of the Sun

_Summertime and the living is easy_. Or so I thought. I was strolling back to our cottage late one summer afternoon. I had not planned to go out that day, but a number of the local beekeeping groups had amalgamated recently and had invited a well-known beekeeper to speak at their inaugural meeting. On a sudden flisk I had decided to go and hear him.

As our cottage came into view, I saw a dogcart parked outside; we had an unexpected visitor. However, as I approached, I saw Dr Robins leave the cottage and hop into the dogcart, departing before I reached the gate.

Somewhat surprised, I walked up the path. As I opened the front door I was greeted by Mrs Berowne, our housekeeper.

“Mr Holmes, thank goodness you’re back,” she said.

“Why? What’s happened?” I demanded.

“It’s Dr Watson. He was having paroxysms. He began shaking so badly I had Mrs Wilding’s Jack run for Dr Robins. He came as quickly as he could, and we got the doctor to bed. He gave him morphine and that seems to have helped, but he is still only half conscious.”

I stared at her, scarcely able to absorb the news, then I said, “What does Robins say?”

“Simply to keep the doctor as calm as possible. He will be back again this evening, when I am sure he will tell you more. He used a long word, but I’m afraid I can’t remember what he said.”

“Can I see him?” I snapped. I could see the confusion in Mrs Berowne’s eyes, and realised she thought I meant Robins. “Watson!”

“Of course, Mr Holmes. I’m sure your presence will be a blessing to him.”

Without further ado I hurried up the stairs and into Watson’s bedroom. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I thought at first he was unaware of my presence, but then he gave a small nod and his hand fluttered as if to indicate I should bring a chair to his bedside.

I did so and took his hand in mine. I looked closely at him and cursed my own stupidity. How often during my career had I accused others of seeing, but not observing, and now I was guilty of the same error. Watson had been visiting Robins for some weeks, but when I had asked him about the visits, he had said he was simply seeing a fellow practitioner and discussing articles in the _British Medical Journal_. As proof he had shown me some of the journals and mentioned some of their discussions. But it had been pure sophism, to prevent me from discovering how ill he was.

I tried hard but could come up with nothing apposite to say. Instead, I spoke of our dreams for the future, recalling plans we had made during the past week. I am not sure who I was trying to convince that there would be a future. I like to think I was being positive to encourage Watson to hang onto life, but, if I am being truthful, it was because I could not imagine a future without him being in it.

Dr Robins returned, and I left him to examine his patient. Mrs Berowne had laid a cold supper on the table. I sat down, but the table was like a manuscript with a lacuna where Watson’s plate ought to be, and I could not eat.

After a while, Robins came back downstairs. “There is nothing more I can do,” he said. “I have made Dr Watson comfortable. It will not be long now.”

I nodded, being incapable of speech.

Mrs Berowne put her hand on my arm. “You go back to him, Mr Holmes. I’ll see Dr Robins out.”

I re-entered Watson’s room, and once again took his hand. A finger twitched but that was all. Robins had been right, it was not long before Watson breathed his last.

“Good night, sweet prince,” I murmured. “May flights of angels sing you to your rest.”

Outside the sun was setting. The day before I would have said it was glorious, and Watson would have added ‘red sky at night, shepherds’ delight’. But I am no shepherd and took no delight at the going down of the sun.


	11. Cartoon Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Moriar T Coyote, Deerstalker Holmes and Bowler-Hat Watson

“I’ll get you this time,” Moriar T Coyote muttered. “I shall fight you on this wooden bridge and throw you over it.”

“I think not,” Deerstalker Holmes replied. “You are holding an ACME patent bomb in one hand. I can easily fight you off.”

“Then I shall put down my bomb,” Coyote said.

Coyote and Holmes started to fight. 

<<POW! BIFF! BASH!>>

The wooden bridge over the waterfall swayed from side to side and just as it was about to tip them both off, a rope swung into sight, which Holmes grabbed and pulled himself to safety. 

<<WHEEEE!!>>

[There is no indication of where the other end of the rope was attached, but this is entirely irrelevant. As is the fact that the bomb remains in one place despite the movement of the bridge.]

With a shriek and a “I’ll get you next time, Holmes!” Coyote fell into the fast-flowing river.

<<AAARGH!!!>> <<SPLASH!!!>>

“Holmes, are you all right?” Bowler-Hat Watson shouted.

He ran into the middle of the bridge, and just at that moment the ACME patent bomb exploded.

<< **BOOM!!!!** >>


	12. The Lady Poisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In SIGN Holmes said, 'The most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance money.' What if it had gone differently?

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said, as she caught up with me coming up the stairs. “A client called for you earlier, a lovely lady. I took up some tea and left her with Dr Watson, but I’m afraid she must have tired of waiting; I heard her footsteps on the stairs not ten minutes ago. She sounded in a hurry; I expect she had realised she was late for another appointment.”

I rushed up the stairs and into our rooms, but I was too late. Why had I not warned Watson I was expecting a possible poisoner to call?


	13. Brother John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for infant/child death - period typical

Mrs Watson looked proudly at her little boy, running round with the other children in their street. John, named after an older brother who had died in infancy, was strong and healthy. She patted her stomach, her sixth child, of whom three were still living, was due in a month’s time. She smiled as John raced past waving a pretend sword as he went.

The cholera came swiftly, decimating their street and taking her John, together with her dreams of him becoming a brave soldier. If her unborn child was a boy, she would call him John in his memory.


	14. An Den Schoenen Blauen Donau

“Watson, I don’t care what Herr Strauss called this river, it is not blue, it is grey, and on top of everything else, it is raining!” Sherlock Holmes said.

“I promised myself when we came to Vienna, I would take a boat out on the river, and I am not going to let a drop of rain prevent it,” Watson replied.

“We could go to a salon and you could waltz,” Holmes pleaded in desperation. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Nonsense, Holmes, I’m going.”

Inevitably, a squall blew in and the small boat overturned. Watson couldn’t swim.  
  



	15. Petunias

Watson looked out of the basket of the hot air balloon. It was rather exciting to be up in the sky flying along, almost as though he were a bird. He wondered what it would be like to actually be a bird flying free. He climbed up onto the side of the basket, wobbled slightly, stuck his arms out wide and leapt.

He began to plummet towards the ground. Partway down he was joined by a bowl of petunias. He looked across at the flowers.

“Hello,” he said, “You’re pretty.”

The petunias simply sighed and said, “Oh no, not again!”


	16. A Trip to the Zoo

It wasn’t the boxing kangaroo which delivered a knock out blow.  
It wasn’t the boa constrictor which caught him within its coils.  
It wasn’t the lion too hungry to wait for its dinner.  
It wasn’t the monkey which grabbed his tie and pulled it tight round his neck.  
It wasn’t the elephant who trampled over him and then trumpeted on its way.  
It wasn’t the camel who refused to be ridden and threw him from between its humps.  
It was none of these.  
It was a penguin, leaving a wet path for Watson to slip and fall into the pool.


	17. The Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Gothic tale

“Sherlock Holmes,” the count exclaimed, “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Holmes whirled round. The castle hallway was dark, lit only by rush lights which cast eerie shadows onto the floor and walls.

The count stepped out of the shadows, a rapier in his hand.

“I will not let you marry that girl,” Holmes said firmly. “I know that you abducted her.”

“But you can’t prove it,” the count sneered. “And even if you could, you won’t live long enough to do so.”

The count drew back his rapier, and as he did so, Watson yelled, “No, I won’t let you.”

He threw himself in between Holmes and the count and received the full thrust of the blade. He fell dead at their feet.

“Watson,” Holmes bent down to his stricken companion. “You fiend, you will not escape me now,” he screamed.

The count pulled open one of the heavy oak doors, but Holmes was on him in a flash. They fought briefly, the count fell, and Holmes grabbed the count’s sword.

Holding it high above his head, Holmes plunged it into the count’s heart, declaring, “This is for depriving me of my most faithful and beloved companion.”

He turned and saw a girl staring at him in horror.

“Come, my dear,” he said, “We must leave this oppressive building.”


	18. Bradstreet's Prisoner

Inspector Bradstreet glared at the prisoner on the other side of the table. “You still refuse to say why you did this?”

The man nodded.

“You know you will be hanged. Why not tell us who paid you to do it?”

The man shook his head.

Bradstreet wondered what hold someone could have that the prisoner still refused to revel their name, even when he had nothing left to lose.

Furious and frustrated Bradstreet stood. “Take him back to his cell,” he ordered.

Picking up his coat and hat he left the station. He had Dr Watson’s funeral to attend.


	19. Cartoon Verse (Again)

“Jolly boating weather,” sang Deerstalker Holmes. He didn’t seem bothered that the boat wasn’t going anywhere other than round in circles.

“It is rather,” agreed Bowler-Hat Watson. He was rowing. “Such a lovely peaceful day. Wait a minute. Do you see the ripple coming towards us from across the other side of the pond? Could it be the Boating Pond Monster?”

Suddenly a saw appeared through the bottom of the wooden boat. On the blade was engraved the wording ACME patent rust-proof hole cutting saw.

“It’s not the Boating Pond Monster,” Holmes exclaimed, “It’s that dastardly Moriar T Coyote!”

By now there was a complete hole in the boat. [But do not fear, Watson should be safe so long as no-one mentions the fact, as it won’t sink until then.]

Watson put his head through the hole to see if Holmes was right.

“Don’t do that!” Holmes shouted. “You can’t breathe underwater.”

This was something else Holmes was right about.


	20. I'm just going outside, I may be sometime

Watson couldn’t sleep, the stress of the day, and the worry of what was yet to come, had left his mind active. He tried to keep still, not wishing to disturb Holmes, who was catching a few hours’ sleep. He could feel the dull ache in his leg and knew it would not have recovered by the following morning. Holmes had insisted they shelter in the stone hovel overnight and continue the journey once it was dawn. But Watson knew if he had been on his own, Holmes would have continued walking far into the night, for the further they were away from their pursuers by morning the safer they would be. He could hear from Holmes’ breathing that his friend was asleep. Quietly he stood up and crept out of the hovel. He tore a page from his notebook ready to leave a message. When news had reached England of the fate of Scott’s polar expedition, Watson had been impressed by the courage of Captain Oates. He therefore chose to use the same words; confident Holmes would see them as his final goodbye. Then, turning away from the hovel, he set off limping his way into the unforgiving countryside.


	21. High Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Watson is a vampire, and he's not likely to live, this was the only way it could go.

Watson heard Holmes’ footsteps as he entered their rooms. He didn’t turn round, being intent on what he was doing. “Are you any further on with this case?” he asked.

Holmes sighed. “I have eliminated the impossible, and the improbable seems too far-fetched to be true.”

Watson spun round, his fangs still dripping blood. “In all the years I have known you, you have never once suspected,” he snarled. “I am a vampire.”

“But, nevertheless, the improbable must be the truth,” Holmes said calmly. “Lestrade, use the stake. Now!”

Immediately, Lestrade lunged forward and the stake went into Watson’s heart.


	22. Cartoon Verse (Once More)

Deerstalker Holmes and Bowler-Hat Watson were sitting in their rooms in 221B Baker Street when there was a knock at the door and a messenger entered. He was carrying a box which was almost as big as he was. He set the box in the middle of the floor, before departing with what might have been an evil laugh.

Carefully Watson lifted the lid off the box. “Let’s see what’s inside,” he said.

[If he’d walked round the box, he would have seen on the far side it said: ACME Chocolate Cake (large).]

Watson peered inside the box. “Holmes,” he called, “It’s a very large chocolate cake.” [See, told you!]

Watson leaned further over and suddenly disappeared from sight. Holmes stood up and went to see what had happened. There was no sign of Watson, except for his shoes. The rest of him had vanished inside the cake.

From outside the door he heard cackling, and Moriar T Coyote saying, “Aha, death by chocolate!”


	23. A Limerick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This began as a simple limerick, but Debriswoman joined in, so it became a Call and Response limerick.

There once was a doctor whose demise  
Kept coming as rather a surprise  
He died everyday  
In ev’ry conceivable way  
And never once had a reprise  
  


_Debriswoman:_  
This beleaguered physician must dread  
Your daily short fic, where he’s dead.  
You really aren’t willing,  
To cease endless killing  
And simply just wound him instead?  
  
  
I believe this comm is just made  
For disaster by gun or by blade  
By water or fire  
Even falling church spire  
Or just blow from an errant farm spade  
  
  
 _Debriswoman:_  
Would it be such a terrible crime  
If you let him be rescued in time?  
If just once in a while  
He could end with a smile...  
Not be slaughtered in prose and in rhyme?  
  
  
I have heard what you have to say  
That of his execution there could be a stay  
I will give it some thought  
As I probably ought  
But it certainly won’t be today  
  
  
 _Debriswoman:_  
There’s a phrase I am tempted to borrow  
And quote, in the depths of my sorrow.  
This “conductor of light”  
Has been snuffed out each night.  
And I don’t rate his chances tomorrow...


	24. Deadly Weather

It was a dark and story night. Dr Watson was on his way back to Baker Street after visiting a patient, his hat jammed firmly on his head and his collar turned up against the wind and the rain. There was no point in trying to use an umbrella, for it would only have blown away.

A sudden flash of lightning and crash of thunder was followed by a man’s scream and the sound of the bolting hooves of a horse spooked by the elements of the storm. The last thing Watson saw was the panicked horse heading for him.


	25. In Which Watson Snuffs It Again

Dr Watson had already had a disturbed night, having been woken earlier by thunder and then forced to get out of bed as the rain came in through the open window, so, when Holmes came rushing in to wake him shortly after dawn, his mind was somewhat confused.

“What is it? A fire?” he asked, thinking there might have been a lightning strike nearby.

“No,” Holmes replied, “but I’ve solved the coded message. Come, Watson, there’s no time to lose. This man is not simply malapert, but extremely dangerous and needs to be stopped at once.”

Watson dressed hurriedly and followed Holmes out into the street. It was early, and there seemed to be no cabs around.

Holmes cursed under his breath. “There is nothing for it, we shall have to walk, but maybe we can find a cab on our way. I dread what this delay may mean.”

They found a cab waiting outside Marylebone Station, and Holmes told the cabbie the destination before leaping into the cab. “As quickly as you can, driver,” he called.

The horse set off at a brisk trot, and Holmes turned to Watson and said, “We may yet be in time.”

They had been travelling for only about five minutes when the cab began to slow. The cabbie leaned down and said, “Sorry, gents, I’m not sure what’s up ahead, but it’s not going to be easy to get the cab through. You’ll probably be faster on foot.”

Holmes leapt down and began to push his way through the crowd who were being held back by a couple of policemen. Whatever had occurred had clearly appealed to the British workman on his way to begin work that morning.

Watson stopped to pay the cabbie, tipping him generously.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” the cabbie said, before manoeuvring his horse and cab around in the growing crowd.

Watson approached the policemen, one of whom recognised him and said, “Good morning, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes went into the building through the side door over there.”

“Thank you,” Watson replied. 

Watson entered the building into what appeared to be a stairwell. There was a door to one side, but that was bolted, so, as he could hear voices coming from one of the upper floors, he started up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he could hear footsteps close by. The voices still sounded from the floor above, but Watson couldn’t hear Holmes’ voice and therefore presumed he was investigating close by.

Watson tried the nearest door, which opened and led into a barren room. At the far side of the room was another doorway and it was through that one that the sound of the footsteps was coming. As he walked through the empty room Watson glanced out of the window. In the small courtyard below a dead body was lying, its arms and limbs hacked about and grotesquely arranged. 

Watson hurried into the next room, to where he had assumed Holmes had gone. He walked through the doorway, to find no-one there after all. On the far wall, written in what looked to him like blood, where the words, “Vox populi, vox dei.”

“Holmes!” he called. He whirled round at the sound of footsteps behind him and to his horror he saw not Holmes but a man in a bowler hat and grey overcoat, who was pointing a gun at him. The bullet went straight through the middle of his forehead.


	26. Just Don't ...

“Holmes, slow down!” Watson gasped. He was hot, tired and had spent the better part of the blistering July day chasing across London.

“No time,” Holmes replied. He rushed into the house, through the servants’ entrance. “Just don’t ...” The rest of his words were swallowed up as he charged through the house.

Watson followed him into the kitchen. On the kitchen table was a tray with a jug of lemonade and half a dozen glasses. The lemonade looked so refreshing Watson hoped no-one would mind if he drank some.

He drank it, grabbed his throat and collapsed to the floor.


	27. The Unexpected Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crossover with Discworld, and the most obvious character.

“You know I don’t normally receive patients in our rooms, Mrs Hudson. This really isn’t the ideal place to see them.”

“I realise that, doctor, but in the circumstances, I think it would be for the best.”

“Very well. You’d better show them up.”

A tall, cadaverous person entered.

“Who are you?” Watson asked. “I was expecting a patient.”

YOU MAY LIKE TO THINK OF ME AS YOUR FINAL PATIENT.

“Oh, but that means,” a pause, “it’s finally happened.”

YES, YOU’VE BEEN EXPECTED.

Watson looked back his stabbed **(1)** body.

“This wasn’t how I thought it would be.”

IT RARELY IS.

**Footnote (1):** Insert choice of own description.


	28. He Couldn't Wait

“I warned him,” Mrs Hudson said tearfully, “that no good would come of it.”

“I’m sure you did,” Inspector Lestrade said, trying to comfort her.

“Mr Holmes said it was an addiction.”

Lestrade grunted.

“But Dr Watson got so involved in those stories of grand adventures.” She sniffed. “I told him Whiting would be here soon with the ladder to change the light, but it seems he couldn’t wait to read the next chapter.”

“And balanced a pile of books on top of the table to reach the light, overbalanced and fell, hitting his head on the iron fire surround.”


	29. Take A Look At The Law Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler from Life on Mars

“‘We’ll hide in this police box,’ he said. ‘They’ll not dare come after us in there.’ It wasn’t like any police box I’ve ever been in, even that one time with WPC …”

“Thank you, Gene, you don’t need to go into details,” Sam Tyler snapped. “The original idea was a good one; we needed to get away from the Russell gang, and it wasn’t as if there was any way out of that alleyway.”

“Bloody London,” Gene Hunt moaned. “Can’t even have proper police boxes.”

“At least the gang seem to have moved on,” Sam added. “Come on let’s get out of this alleyway before they decide to return.”

The two of them walked down the alley, Gene leading, until he suddenly stopped. “Bloody hell,” he said, “what do we have here?”

He bent down and Sam copied him. They had found a man lying on his side.

“He’s dead,” Sam said.

“Probably on account of the knife stuck in his chest,” Gene replied. “But that’s odd, the blood’s all congealed, as if he’s been here for a while.”

“Killed elsewhere and dumped here?”

“Does it look like that to you?”

“Well no. But we came down here no more than ten minutes ago, and he wasn’t here then. We’d have noticed him.”

“You don’t say. Dead body in the middle of the alley, someone would have fallen over him.”

“It’s getting curiouser and curiouser.”

“And I’m the White Bloody Rabbit. You got us into this, Tyler, you’d better get us out.”

“We can’t leave a dead body here.”

“What do you suggest we do with it, take it with us back into that police box?” Gene snorted, stood up and went to look in the street the alley led onto. He returned rapidly. “You’d better go and have a look at that,” he said, pointing to the way he’d gone. “It’s all changed.”

Sam did as instructed, stepping cautiously out into the street. As he did so he was almost knocked over by a tall thin man who was hurrying towards him. The man turned into the alleyway and spotting the body, instantly knelt down beside it.

He turned the head gently to see the face and said, “Watson, no!” Then turning to Sam and Gene he said, “Who are you? What do you know about this?”

“We don’t know anything,” Sam said. “We found him like this.”

“What are you doing here?” the man snapped.

“Staying out of the way of the Russell gang,” Gene replied.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you have to do with that gang?”

“We’ve tracked them from Manchester. We’re policemen. And who are you, asking all these questions?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. This man was my colleague, and dear friend, Dr John Watson. I too have been on the trail of the Russell gang.”

Holmes reached out, as if to stroke Watson’s hand. “What’s this?” he said. He prised something away from Watson’s fingers.

“Looks like an earring,” Gene said.

“There’s another one, in the other hand,” Sam said.

“A pair of earrings?” Gene asked. “What’s the significance?”

“These are Princess Victoria’s earrings,” Holmes replied. “But no, they are not a pair. One is genuine and one is fake. My poor Watson cannot have known which one was which, and so held on to both. But now I have these I have the final proof against the Russell gang. But at what a cost. I shall arrange for Watson’s body to be taken away and then I shall return to my rooms to establish which one is the genuine earring.”

“Pythagoras!” Gene said.

“What?” Sam stared at Gene.

“You know, the bloke who leapt out of his bath and ran down the street naked, shouting ‘Eureka!’ He knew how to tell real from fake.”

“That was Archimedes,” Sam sighed.

“All foreign!”

“You are quite correct, sir,” Holmes replied. “I shall employ a similar method. Can I offer you my services in return for your assistance in this matter?”

“Thank you, but no,” Sam said. “I think we should be getting back.”

“I wish you success with your own Russell gang.”

Sam and Gene headed back down the alley and once more stepped into the police box.

“You know, Tyler,” Gene said, “London’s a very strange place. I can’t wait until we get back to The Railway Arms and I can have a proper northern pint.”


	30. After The Funeral

The funeral had been very well attended, with the pews full and many of the mourners standing at the back. There had been people present from all walks of life, from the wealthy in their smart mourning attire, including, it was rumoured, a gentleman present who was representing the Queen, down to those from the East End who had benefitted from Watson’s care over the years.

Afterwards, the upper classes had retired to Watson’s Club, where a buffet had been laid on, whilst those less well off had crowded into the Red Lion and the Star, to swap stories and bid farewell to one who had touched many lives in different ways.

But there were a few for whom the loss was much more personal, and they had returned to 221B Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson had been ready to provide some light refreshments, but her friend Mrs Turner had swept in and told her she wouldn’t hear of such a thing. “You mourn the doctor, for you were as much his friend as anyone else, and I’ll see to everything. It’s the least I can do. Think of it as my way of remembering him.”

In its own way, this gathering reflected those who had been in the church, from Mycroft Holmes, ensconced in an armchair, to Billy Wiggins, now grown up, standing slightly awkwardly by the mantlepiece. Mrs Hudson was sitting on a dining chair, her offer of help having been turned down by Mrs Turner, dabbing at her eyes. Inspector Lestrade, now retired, was sitting beside her, apparently lost in thought, occasionally having to resort to blowing his nose very firmly.

Tea was poured and passed around, and Mycroft opened a bottle of brandy he had brought and ensured those who wanted some were given a glass. All eyes turned to Sherlock Holmes.

He cleared his throat and began, “I am …” Then he stopped and looked around at the assembled group, deep grief etched across his face.

Gently, Inspector Stanley Hopkins placed a hand on Holmes’ shoulder and said, “I am sure I speak for all of us gathered here, as well as the very many who attended the funeral, when I say how honoured I was to know Dr John Watson. He was more than a physician, more than a conductor of light, more even than a good friend. He was a man who cared dearly for each and everyone of us, and will be very greatly missed. I therefore give you Dr Watson!”

“Dr Watson!”

The tears flowed, but no-one commented on them.

And in the club, and in the pubs, the same toast was raised. “Dr Watson!”


	31. Aftermath

“I found all this talk of death rather depressing,” the Ferret said.

“Indeed, not a chance for me to speak about my beloved inspector,” Mouselet replied.

“Nor I mine,” agreed Aemelia Vole.

“Well, I’m going to have a doze,” the Ferret said. “In the hope that when I wake up there will have been no further deaths.”

***

A scream rent the air.

Dr Watson rushed into the sitting room.

“Please, no more deaths,” he beseeched.

“It’s okay,” Mouselet said reassuringly. “Bessie moved the cardboard box when she was polishing the table. The Ferret stuck his head out and startled her.”


End file.
